"Multitudes" by Patrick Nevins

Multitudes

Steven and Trish Roberts told their children that if they did what they loved, they’d never work a day in their lives, and for both children that promise came true — though not in the same way. Trish, following her daughter’s every dance recital, soccer match, and biology test, said, “I’m so proud of you, Bethany; you know if you keep following your love for dance (or athletics, or animals), you’ll never work a day in your life! I really believe in you!” Steven, on the other hand, having caught his son breaking curfew or smoking pot, said, “Dammit, Neil, if you only do the things that you love, you’ll never work a day in your life! You won’t make anything of yourself!
”Some twenty years on, Steven and Trish thinking about retirement, and Bethany and Neil approaching their forties, the children have yet to work a day in their lives. From her bounty of paths, Bethany chose animal science and pursued it with her whole being. She graduated summa cum laude and was a standout at vet school, where she married one of her classmates. The two of them went into a small animal practice, where they’re still happily employed. She and her wife work alternate days to manage raising their lovely children. Before you raise any objections, yes, Bethany did have to take jobs from time to time during her schooling, but she made the choice — which is the prerogative of her class when working odd jobs — to not care about them. When she was hostessing, she would seat each party with a smile, then return to the stand and turn her thoughts to her passions, to thinking about, say, the proper way to express a dog’s anal glands. But Bethany, whom we have always adored, is only pertinent to this story as a foil to her brother, so her part in it ends here.
Let us turn now to Neil. He had interests. Skateboarding. Pot. Girls. He played guitar in a band for a while, but didn’t have the same level of commitment as the other guys and grew bored of it. He was not encouraged to pursue his interests by his parents — they urged him toward community college or an apprenticeship. (Should they have? He might be running a successful dispensary today.) But his bigger problem was his lack of commitment. A trick or riff that was just out of reach would remain there. So how has he gotten by for twenty years without working? I’m sure he’s had jobs—probably hundreds at this point — but I’ve known the Roberts since the children were toddlers, and I can’t tell you one thing Neil’s done in his life that’s anything like a livelihood the young man would enjoy. I think he’s mostly gotten by on the kindness of vulnerable young women, about whom Steven and Trish say very little.
Which brings us to my part in this story. A few months ago, Steven told me that Neil was living at home and asked me if we could offer him some work. Something to occupy him. Help him get back on his feet. Something in the yard or garden? Paint the house? (He never suggested the tree; that’s on me.) I didn’t appreciate it, because it felt like they were taking advantage of us. Our sons live out of town, and a few years ago I had a stroke, so I can’t do all the things I used to. Cheryl is very capable with the yard and garden stuff, but when the disposal motor goes or something like that — basically any job that I used to do with two hands — we call a professional. And Steven knows that. Could we use a hand? Okay, Steven didn’t say that, but that’s what I heard. Of course we could, but dammit, Steven, you shouldn’t have asked.
Cheryl and I talked it over and decided that a diplomatic approach would be to offer Neil one job and then wash our three good hands of him. There was a tree out front that had branches hanging over the roof. We wanted them cut back, and Cheryl wasn’t comfortable using the chainsaw, and I had no business getting on the roof. So I called Neil and told him what the job was worth, and in a few hours, he was in our garage gassing up the chainsaw.
“How have you been, Neil?” Cheryl asks.
“Oh, all right, I guess.”
That’s it. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to get into his situation — I preferred that he didn’t — but he doesn’t ask how we are. He can’t even commit to exchanging pleasantries with his neighbors who’ve know him since he was in diapers.
“You sure you know how to handle one of these?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he goes, “I’ve done this before.”
But he’s got no earplugs, no safety goggles. That’s when I should’ve stopped him, but I didn’t, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.
I give Neil my safety goggles, and then he’s up the ladder and on the roof, the chainsaw ripping into branches, sawdust raining down. Everything seems okay, so Cheryl and I head to the back patio to get away from the noise.
My story started with a cliché, and it ends with another: No good deed goes unpunished. Cheryl and I are reading the paper when a new and terrible noise joins the buzzing of the chainsaw. It’s Neil screaming. Cheryl runs around front; I can’t run, but I limp as fast as I can. Then Cheryl’s coming back with a hobbling Neil, whose left hand is a bloody, gnarled confusion of flesh and bone.
I helped Neil file for disability. After that, he moved back out of his parents’ house, and while there’s this awkwardness between Cheryl and me and the Roberts, Neil comes by to visit every once in a while. He and I will have a few beers and play cornhole in the back yard. “Where’d you get these?” I asked when he showed up unexpectedly with his cornhole boards. “They’re slick.” They were. Smooth pine. Sturdily built.
“I made them,” he said.
“You made them?”
“Before I fucked up my hand.”
“Still. I didn’t know you did stuff like this.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I laughed. Here I thought he was a real zero, as useless as our left hands, and find out he’s a craftsman. And funny. He’s something.
I look forward to his visits. I’m sure he still drives his parents crazy, but I appreciate his kindness toward me. He says we’re just two old cripples (his words, not mine) who have to stick together. I don’t think he’s wrong.

Patrick Nevins

Patrick Nevins is the author of the novel Man in a Cage (forthcoming from Malarkey Books). His writing appears in HAD, Solar, and other places.

Headshot: Patrick Nevins

Photo Credit: Staff